Five Times Ron Weasley Took a Bullet for Harry Potter
by 95Echelon
Summary: (And one time he didn't.)
1. 1

Five Times Ron Weasley Took a Bullet for Harry Potter

(And one time he didn't)

a/n: A fic that comes to you in five parts + one bonus shmoopy thing.  
Disclaimer: I own a small metaphysical pygmy puff. I do not own Hermione's pert ass. Nor do I own anyone else.

1.

Ron's fairly certain Harry doesn't know about the first time. It was in Hogwarts, their fifth year, when the Boy Who Lived was too busy being an angry revolutionary to sweat the small stuff, and the Brightest Witch was too busy making sure the aforesaid angry Boy got through his school year in one (living, breathing, taking down Dark Lords) piece. Ron Weasley didn't have a title, not really, he was just the other guy. But he was the other guy who was the best friend to Boy Who Lived and the Brightest Witch of Her Age. So he figured he'd done pretty good anyway.

It was on their way back from Charms, he thinks, a few days after Harry had picked his first fight with Umbridge. Someone had said something, someone had said something else, Harry had yelled a third something and it all devolved into an ugly shouting match. Flitwick had ended it with 50 points off from both Slytherin and Gryffindor, and then Harry had stomped off, fuming and pissed off, like he was wont to do those days.

He thinks it was a couple of older Ravenclaws, he thinks maybe he saw a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye, but there no time for that, was there? Not with the bright purple curse flying at Harry's unprotected back. And then he was running, sprinting down towards Harry to push him away, pull him back, _something!_ And the curse him - hard and rough and sending **pain** through his bones like ohholyMOTHERFU-

He was barely aware of falling, only knowing that he couldn't scream, his throat spasming, eyes watering, barely aware even of the hard _smack!_ of his head against the flagstoned castle floor. Brown filled his vision, and Hermione? Hermione? She was cradling his head in her lap, kneeling on the floor, wand in hand, and whispering quiet healing spells. The pain receded, leaving a dull throbbing and then her fingers were brushing his lips, and she was murmuring, "Drink this," holding a tiny potion vial. He drank cautiously, throat still raw from the not-screaming, and it was cool and blissful and he didn't think he'd ever loved her better.

Later, in the common room, when Harry shortly said, "Where were you two?", he responded with a, "Got held up. A coupla firsties got lost on their way to Defense. Perks of the job, eh?" Harry's eyes had flashed to his Prefect badge. He grunted and said nothing, returning to an unfinished essay.

Hermione smiled at him then, all tender warmth. "Don't want to worry him?", she asked softly.  
"He's got enough on his plate, right?"

Besides, Ron figured, Hermione's smile was repayment enough.

* * *

a/n:

gotta admit, the title (and summary) is blatantly plagiarized from that one destiel fanfic i read that one time months ago because i'm an unoriginal skank. (it was, if you're wondering, **excellent**.)

r&amp;r, you know it's done.  
thanks for reading!

edit on 16/2/15:

zomg i completely forgot - this story's cover image is by viria13 over on deviantart, go stalk her - she's **bae** 3


	2. 2

2.

(divergence from canon is intentional; please don't PM me about my 'mistakes'.)

The second time, Ron's pretty sure not even Hermione found out about.

It was when the Trio had been seventeen and hunting horcruxes, when Ron'd gone back, "running to Mummy", for Christmas.  
When he arrived, they said nothing. Bill made him a bed on the self-transfiguring couch, in the living room of the cottage. Fleur made him a hot mug of tea and talked at him, telling him about Beauxbatons, letting him stare numbly into the fireplace while the reality of his betrayal finally began to register. When his hands shook, she took away the still-full, now-cold tea, tucking him into her side, and singing softly in French, letting him gasp-cry soundlessly into her shoulder, letting his tears seep into the thin cambric of her shirt without a word.

He wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but when he woke up, it was dark. The night was breezy, starlit, starkly at odds with the tumult in his mind.  
Mindless and scared for his friends and angry at himself, he'd pulled on a jumper and stalked out of the house. He walked without thought, and when he reached Ottery St. Catchpole, he was almost surprised. The little Devon village was quiet, the cobbled streets empty, the streetlights casting little golden puddles of illumination.

The little café on the corner of Main Street blazed a neon "Open 24x7!" sign, and on a far table, three men, scruffy and unkempt, sat huddled over steaming mugs of coffee.

They wore cloaks. Wizards' cloaks.

Ron frowned, and ducked into a back alley. Spelling his hair dark, and conjuring on a pair of boxy, plastic glasses, he stepped into the café. With some relief, he realised the café also sold cake. Ordering himself a slice of chocolate truffle at the counter and handing over a - mercifully correct at first try - stack of pound notes, he sat himself at a table within a few feet of the three men.

"Right," the first one muttered, a dirty fingernail dragging across a dirtier map of Britain, "So we've got a group workin' out of this here Camp in London, aye?"  
"Yeah," the second one nodded, a fraying ball cap pulled low over his face. "And a couple other groups here, down near Penzances, bloody lucky bastards, and up in Leeds."  
"Buggers must've frozen their balls off up there, huntin' 'em mudblood bitches, eh?" The third grinned a yellowed, decaying grin. He looked like he'd never heard of toothpaste. Or, going by the matted beard, of shaving. Or, going by the pungent odor that wafted from the group, of any kind of hygiene.

Only… _hunting? **Mudbloods?**_

Death Eaters, _holy frigging hell._ Or dark-side sympathizers, at the very least. Bloody hell, only _he'd _run away from hunting horcruxes, and run straight into a bunch of crazies who'd probably love his nuts on a platter. _What a day._

"Right. So. You say the words, the map lights up wherever someone says You-Know-'Oo's name, eh? What's the words to find the idjit taboo-breakers?" the first one mutters, drawing out a wand, a shoddy, scuffed-up thing that has seen better days, and taps it against the map, with a, "Ah, 'ere we go. Invisit reus Voldemort." And then, the yellow-toothed one is saying, "Ah! Bingo! Where's this? Forest o' Dean? Close 'nuff, close 'nuff. Let's get them bastards."

_The forest of Dean - that's where Hermione is. _**_Where Harry is. _**

And Ron's kicking back his chair, that falls to the floor with a loud clatter, and yelling, "Petrificus totalalus! Incarcereous!" The guy with the ball cap slumps to the floor, bound in robes, eyes bugging out of his skull. Only the first guy already has his wand out, and he's yelling, "Crucio! **Crucio, you little-**"

But Ron dodges the first curse, years of Quidditch training catching up on the ground, ducks behind a table and then, "Defodio!" The man's wand arm explodes, the stump casting a crimson fountain that splatters across the glass windows of the café and the cream-and-roses wallpaper. He crashes to the floor, sobbing and screaming and clutching what remains of his arm.

Ron gasps, feels something warm and liquid on his cheek and tells himself it's coffee. But then he feels a warm breath against his neck, and he turns around- or he tries, _but he _**_can't - _**because a clawed hand is secure around his waist.

"You buggered up little shithead. You feckin' come 'ere and try to mess with us, _us_, eh?" Ron can feel those nails sinking straight into his skin, little drops of blood staining his shirt, and he _whimpers_, and the man, says, "Cry, little boy. _**Cry.**_"

And Ron is a whirlwind, stamping the man's instep, making him scream and a hard fist socking him in a sharp undercut, wand forgotten on the floor. The man falls and Ron is on him, hitting and hitting, fists bloodied.

Finally, when he stops, he kneels on the bloodied floor, head bowed and arms loose at his sides.

And all he can think of is, _'They only got to me. Not to him. Not to her. Only to me, thank Merlin, they only got to me.'_

* * *

_a/n:_

goddamnit it's 1am and i have the flu. i need to sleep. instead i'm rewatching season 2 of game of thrones. shoot me, please.  
also, r&amp;r and muchos gracias for reading. you guys are the best.


	3. 3

3.

(divergence from canon is intentional; please don't PM me about my 'mistakes'.)

Ron's fairly certain no one at all ever found out about the third time.

The strategy of the Order had really just been, 'Cut off the head.'

Which Harry did, with all the quiet bravery and dignity and sacrifice that one requires of a hero.  
But Voldemort had never been the only head of the Death Eaters.

There was Lucius Malfoy, the financier, finely honed and polished and elegant.  
There was Bellatrix Lestrange, the whip, she of death and insanity and cruel laughter.  
There was Evan Rosier, the deviant, the rapist, the madman even Fenrir Greyback and his ilk would follow.

When Voldemort fell, he screamed, he whom they called the first blade of the Inner Circle, and he turned on the Hero, the man even Death would not touch.

But before Malfoy could cast his curse, before his lips could form the words, Ron was gripping a shaking wand, the body of his dead mother burning in his mind, the image of Lestrange's drunken cackles as she gloated over Molly Weasley's unmoving form taking on a strange crimson hue behind his eyes.

So Ron Weasley looked at Bellatrix Lestrange, the first daughter of the House of Black, and whispered, "Imperio." and such was his will, such was the steadiness of his hand, that when he said to her, murmuring in her mind, _'Bella, sweet Bella, turn your wand on Malfoy, turn it on him, kill him, if you will, dear, _dear_ Bella…'_

And Bellatrix Lestrange tilted her head, like a connoisseur of fine art regarding a painting, and sang, "Avada Kedavra. Bye-bye birdie." There was a flash of green and the light was snuffed out of Malfoy's eyes.

And he felt the connection waver and begin to snap, like the fraying of a rope stretched too far, and he yelled, just as he lost her, 'Your turn!'

But she turned to him, eyes burning and savage, coming out of the Imperio's trance. She shook her head and **_snarled,_** like a feral, wild dog, hackles raised and spittle gathering on her lower lip. "Is the widdle Wheezy boy trying on big boy spells? Hmm?" She smiled, eerie and disjointed, at once both lax muscles, and coiled like she was waiting to strike. "Mummy's dead, widdle boy, hmm? Does the ickle baby boy-"

But then her expression froze, her body locked up and she fell, her head hitting the marble with an echoing thud, and behind her stood Narcissa Malfoy, the third daughter of the House of Black, wand upraised and trembling in a white-knuckled grip, her grey eyes blank and blown wide.

"Not my husband, Bella. You gave me your word."  
She stared for a long moment at her dead sister's eyes.

She turned to the young man, then, who stared mutely at the woman who'd quite possibly saved his life.

"I'm so sorry for your mother, Mr. Weasley," she murmured, before she turned around and walked away, finally kneeling by the body of her husband, a feeble, lonesome shell of a woman. Of _course_ she felt sorry for Ron, _of course;_ they were all victims of Bella's madness, weren't they? (_They_ _**weren't**_, Ron wanted to say. _It was me, **me,** not your sister.I **had** to, don't you see? He would've killed my best friend._) He said nothing.

And someone, Shacklebolt maybe, had cast a Reducto at Evan Rosier, and his innards had exploded over the shattered Hufflepuff hourglass in a fantastic profusion of rich, scarlet blood.

And Ron _shook and shook, and _**_retched_**_, _and when Hermione asked, he held her and held her closer and tried not to lose himself.

In his dreams, they called him a _murderer_.  
In his dreams, he said he did it for Harry Potter.

* * *

a/n:

christ. every single time i decide i'll make it grey-dark and badass - not this soul-angst crap and every. single. time. i end up writing wrenching soul angst. who needs a boyfriend? me, that's who.

r&amp;r, please, and thanks for wading through the emotional stewpit that is my fanfiction.


	4. 4

4.

In the end, Ron supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when they began to drift away.

When the ICW formed an international task force for threat monitoring, evaluation and control, they called Harry Potter, Britain's resident dark-lord-taker-downer. And Harry Potter, being the man she was, said yes, packed his bags, grabbed an transvisa and booked it out of the war-torn country that was slowly learning to stand on its own feet. He was gone before Ron could so much as blink.

And when Hermione Granger received an offer for a learn-and-teach position at the secretive, floating school, Al-madrasah'til-Sahr, she grabbed her little beaded purse for Destination: Bumfuck, Nowheresville. (Ron didn't actually know **where** she went. "It's _classified, _Ronald, like I've said a **hundred** times now. Will you please _stop asking?" _)

Ron stayed home, first overseeing the rebuilding of Hogwarts, then ensuring the safe reestablishment of shops down the length of Diagon Alley. He repaired relations with the goblins of Gringotts, and armed with a brother well-versed in bureaucracy, he and Percy oversaw the new purge at the Ministry of Magic. He won them over, the men and women of Britain, with the blue-eyed charm and self-deprecating humour he'd inherited from his father.

They watched him, just the same as he watched over them, this boy-man with sorrow in his eyes and heaviness in his step, the last remaining symbol of the war, who worked tirelessly for his broken country.

They called him brave and loyal and modest to a fault.  
He thought it was all a bit ridiculous.

But when a reporter cornered him on his way leaving the Ministry and asked him why he'd refused to play Keeper for the Chudley Cannons, he said, "There's too much work to be done." The next day, his quote was the headline.

As the media's eyes turned on him, so did the enemies'.

There was the time when a coven of rogue vampires from the Transylvanian border had stormed a press conference for improving inter-specie relations, and held him against dripping fangs, asking him Harry Potter's location.  
There was the time when an old Russian crime family abducted him off to Moscow, and tortured him relentlessly for four weeks, demanding information on Harry's survival of the Avada Kedavra, on Hermione's school, on the Elder Wand's new holder.  
There was the time he'd been the keynote speaker at the Wizengamot's Annual Summit, and they lashed out at him, the elders who wanted their Golden Boy back from wherever the hell he'd disappeared to.

So he fought off the vampires, and threw the ones who remained alive into Azkaban; he spat his bloody saliva into the eyes of his torturers and said, '**Never!**'; he begged a hundred apologies for his friend's absence, for his deserting girlfriend.

For a long time, he just waited.


	5. 5

5.

By some unforeseeable series of events, Ron is invited as a panelist for ICW's 2002 Conference for Improving Inter-specie Relations, being held in Warsaw this year, in an attempt to simultaneously bridge uncertain relations with a fractured post-Grindelwald, post-Voldemort north Europe.

(Percy finds it **entirely** foreseeable.

"You made good with the Gringotts' goblins, little brother, and Merlin knows they're the harshest motherfu-"  
"Yes, because I **_robbed _**them, Perce. Who else was gonna do it?"  
"You pretty much single-handedly enforced the House Elf Regulation Act-"  
"Yeah only 'cause it was basically Hermione's **entire life mission!"  
**"You did the thing that's got all the centaurs singing your praises!"  
"Mate, have you _seen _the regs on centaurs? _Someone_ had to-"  
"Yes and **_you _**_did_, Ronald, now stop selling yourself short and practice your damn speech.")

So Ron practiced his damn speech and Perce booked them a couple tickets for Poland and that is how they ended up staying in the heart of Poland's magical district, on the third floor Emerald Suite of the Kazimierz Warszawa Grand.

The room is opulent, Hepplewhite furniture paired with rich, green upholstery and vivid jade hangings. Everything that can be ruffled or lacquered or tasseled is tastefully ruffled and lacquered and tasseled and Ron is grudgingly impressed.

He can hear the muffled sound of rhythmic shouting from outside, the stomp-beat-yell of an angry mob.

"The puritan faction is strong here, nearly as much as home," Percy says, casting a troubled look at the windows. "And the Polish Magnate faction, well. They've wanted Harry's head on a bloody spike for a long time, but now that you're here, they'll settle for yours."

"...**what?!**"

"It's of no import. The Kazimierz has the best security in Warsaw. We're perfectly safe. Get some sleep, alright? We've got a big day tomorrow."

* * *

He can't sleep.  
It's not the mob, though every now and then he'll hear a vicious yell, glimpse the yellow flicker of torchfire.

It's Percy's words.

"Harry's head on a bloody spike."

The grotesque image won't leave his brain.

So he wraps himself in a soft, silk-lined robe and pads out of the Suite, into a dimly lit corridor, wide enough for a small car to comfortably drive through, with a vague idea of getting a drink at the bar downstairs. He has barely made it to the lift bay, when three things happen in rapid succession.

First- the sharp **_thwack! _**of steel against the back of his skull. The sound is dull and ringing. Ron's vision lurches crazily; black spots dance in his eyes.

Second- the pressure of a male arm wrapping firmly around his neck. The blunt press of a wandtip at his temple. The hoarse whisper of heavily-accented English that tells him, "The First Lord still lives."

Third- Ron pivots, grabbing the man's wand in one smooth, fluid motion, and snaps it against an upraised knee. He carries that inertia, lashing out a clean roundhouse kick to man's shins. He tumbles, hard, to the floor. Ron reaches down, grabs him by the scruff of neck and bashes him facefirst into the corridor wall. Bloody, the would-be captor falls to the carpeted floor.

But there a series of sharp cracks in the lift bay, and Ron spins around to see eight men, mean and tall and beefed-up, wands at the ready, obviously hankering for a fight. They sneer at him, all Slavic cheekbones and fanatical, white grins.

Ron doesn't know how it happens or who aims the first curse, but there's a roaring jaundice yellow curse flying straight at him and he's yelling, "Aetergio! Repulso!", that collides with the oncoming hex, blocking it and throwing it at the caster. But there's a snag at his navel, that almost feels like a portkey- whattheFU-**_UH! _**Ron flies back two- four- eight- _twelve feet_ before landing with a muffled thump on the soft carpet.  
A man runs up to him, face concealed behind a gas mask-like contraption, in a muggle-army-style black camo gear. "Agent Romeo, Interpol, Merlin division, sir. You're safe. Just… stay here, a'ight?" His accent marks him as an American. He jogs back to the group - **the group!** There's a goddamn group fighting off the invaders and where _the sweet **blazes **_did they **come **from?! - all similarly attired in full body camo, all swinging curses and hexes and pulling off some of the best team manoeuvres Ron's seen in a group of hit-wizards in a good long while.

One of them stands out to Ron, (Ron, who's already getting up and dusting himself off and moving towards the fray) (he was never one to sit out battles). He's smaller than the rest, skinnier, and, by the looks of it, _fucking _crazy. He's seems to use only two spells, Expelliarmus and Reducto, and does it with blade-honed finesse.

Only, one of the Slavics is crazier, and he sneaking up on the guy, and Ron doesn't even blink, flat-out sprinting, shoving him bodily out of the way. But he's already screaming _'Duro!' _only now his wand shoots straight at the plastered ceiling and with a deafening roar, the roof caves in and crashes on Ron.

It **_hurts _**_like a __frigging wailing **banshee**._

Faintly, he hears the cracking of his own bones, the ringing in his ears, a harsh, screaming sound that he realises is **him. **And the crazy nutjob he's probably fractured a femur for, is stock-still. But then he's just as suddenly in action, efficiently levitating the debris out of the way. And when it's done, and he's muttered a hundred binding spells across Ron's torn, bleeding body, he rips the mask out of way. Ron's bloodshot blue eyes meet equally bloodshot green.

_"_…**_Harry?_**_"  
_"Merlin, Ron, you **idiot**."

But his eyes smile.

(The fifth time, Ron didn't even know he was taking a bullet for Harry Potter.)

* * *

a/n:

yeesh what a long-ass chapter. if you've come this far in the story, thanks. you is my bae.  
(there was a time when I used bae ironically. now i use it with all the love in my wee heart. *le sigh*)  
r&amp;r, the last instalment is on its way!


	6. Bonus

**Bonus.  
AKA **(And one time he didn't.)

**Warning: **Super-extra fluffy and domestic and adorable because why not.

(VERY VERY IMPORTANT A/N BELOW DON'T SKIP THAT OKAY NOW CARRY ON)

* * *

"What a life, eh?"

Harry laughs, wrinkles pronounced but eyes still as green as they've ever been. They make quite a picture, two old men, reminiscing in old leather armchairs in front of a merry fireplace, snow collecting on the windowsills outside. Hermione walks into the room, the firelight shining golden on her grey-streaked bun, bearing an enormous platter of fresh biscuits, still warm from the oven.

"Neville's been baking again," she announces, cocking a questioning eyebrow at Ron.

"Ah, yeah. Tracy just got her Prefect badge in the mail. He's having a dad moment," Ron replies, grinning and grabbing three of the chocolate fudge biscuits.  
Hermione looks amused, even as she takes a dainty bite of hers. "He's been having a dad moment for the past _week?"  
_"Sweetheart, if it gets me free triple chocolate fudge, he can have his dad moment for as long as he wants."  
Harry smirks at the two of them, and steals another biscuit from the rapidly emptying plate.

"Grampa, grampa, grampaaaaaa!" Teddy Lupin Jr. run-walk-topples over into the living room on tiny, chubby legs, right into Harry's shin, promptly wrapping himself around Harry's calves. He looks up and flashes a wide, gummy, baby smile; fine hair flashing green and gold and pink in rapid succession.

"Grampa, spawkies!"

Harry obliges with a fond chuckle, waving a negligent hand (Wand? What wand? This is _Harry Potter._) and bright coloured sparks descend from the ceiling, like starlight dyed every shade of the rainbow. They're all quiet for a moment, in the face of Harry's magic, always a little careless and a little stunningly beautiful.

"Grampa, cookies?" Teddy Lupin Jr. is adorably pathetic, tugging at Harry's trousers, all big blue eyes, and little rosebud pout, and hair to match.  
Grampa is defenseless in the face of such persuasion, but when the baby has messily demolished **four** biscuits, **_she _**walks into the room, all scarlet hair and fiery temper.

"Harry_. Darling. _What did I say **_just this morning _**about giving Teddy cookies?"  
"Uhm." Harry colours just a little. "Not to?"  
"Oh, so it **_isn't_** rapid onset dementia that made you **_completely _**forget my _**very explicit**_ instructions?"  
"Uhm." Harry may be a saviour of the world as we know it, but _boy_ did he never learn to talk to girls. "No?"  
"Do you have any human idea of how _long it will take to put this imp to bed now?"  
_"…no?"  
"**_NO!_**** NO! ****_Exactly! _**Because you make **me **do it! **Every time!**", she exclaims. Her fists are balled up, and she stamps an impatient foot, just like she used to do when he fell in love with her at sixteen.

Harry looks at Ron, a little pink and a lot desperate. (Also, _terrified_.)

Ron grins, and snags the last cookie, settling back into his armchair. There are many things Ron Weasley would do for Harry Potter. Facing Ginny's wrath still isn't one.

* * *

a/n:  
While the response to this little oneshot series has been incredibly lovely, it was always intended this way: Five mondo-dramatic oneshots plus one that was super-extra-fluffy.

Thank you so much for your reviews and follows and favourites.

Feel free to check out my profile!  
I will personally vouch for the fact that my other stories are basically a hot mess.


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